2. Clara

2

CLARA

" D id you remember your hair tie?" Papa asked Clara as they hurried to the truck.

She showed it to him on her wrist, but he wasn't looking, so she added, "Yes!" and was alarmed by how shouty it sounded. She didn't mean to shout, she just really didn't want to go to her dance classes. The first was a group class where she was clearly the most experienced and she spent a lot of time going over things she already knew how to do, feeling awkward and out of place. The second was a private lesson that made her feel like she didn't know how to do anything .

"How was school this week?" Papa asked, as he pulled the truck out onto the highway and Clara stared out of the window at the fall-brown fields and drunk fences and old houses they passed.

"Good," she said.

"Did you and Aaron and Trevor have a fight?"

Clara shrugged. "No." It wasn't a lie, but she still felt bad. She knew the difference between lying by omission and being truthful. But it was truthful that she wasn't actually fighting with Aaron and Trevor, and they weren't fighting with each other like they sometimes did. They were just leaving her out of something, and she didn't know what it was and it was making her feel hurt and abandoned. Did they have to have secrets from her ?

"Have you thought about what you want to do for your birthday next month?"

That made Clara brighten up and she was happy to regale him with all of her involved ideas for a Halloween birthday party to celebrate turning eight. "Can you make all the doors creak?" she wanted to know. "And I want mummies, but they can't be too gross, just scary. But not funny, either."

"I'll call a guy I know in Egypt and ask him about robbing a crypt for you," her Papa teased. "I'll see if he knows any scary, not-gross, not-funny Pharaohs."

"And not cursed," Clara added, even though she knew Papa was pulling her leg.

"Not cursed," Papa agreed with a sideways smile. "The last thing you want to have to do is have a cursed mummy wandering around your birthday party."

Clara giggled, then sobered. "Papa, am I spoiled?"

She wasn't sure if he was just concentrating on driving for a while because there was a big truck going slow in front of them, but he didn't answer until they passed it on a long straight stretch.

"I don't think you're spoiled, cub," Papa said seriously. "I know you will have everything that you need because we're really lucky to have enough money for that, but I don't let you have everything you want, do I?"

Clara shook her head. There were plenty of things that she got "nos" on. She'd been begging for a cat or a pony for years .

"And I don't let you get away with skipping your chores or slacking on your schoolwork?" he added. The familiar getting-to-Madison landmarks were getting closer together and Clara knew that they were nearly to the dance studio. She snapped herself with the rubber band on her wrist.

"No," she agreed softly.

"Then why would you think you were spoiled?"

Clara considered, scuffing a foot on the passenger mat. "Well, dance lessons are expensive," she started.

"Don't you worry about that," Papa said, reaching over to ruffle Clara's hair. "You're going to be a great dancer like your mom."

The words echoed in Clara's head.

She didn't want to be a celebrity ballerina like the mother she didn't remember, but Papa was so proud of her dancing, and everyone expected it of her now, and wouldn't it be a great waste if she threw away all that study and talent? Clara snapped her rubber band again, harder, wishing she could tell Papa that. She didn't dread lessons because they were hard or the drive was boring, but because she was afraid that she would disappoint everyone if they knew that she didn't even really like dancing.

Dancing around the living room with Miss Mama Patricia, maybe, but not tight-bun, strict-teacher dancing the way everyone thought she should .

She hadn't even told Aaron or Trevor about her doubts, though she had tried to a few times. It just got stuck in her throat. It felt like she was being selfish. A quitter.

Clara stared out of the window at the road as the traffic got thicker. Maybe it would be her own secret, to pay them back for whatever it was they were keeping from her.